Arith of Numbers
by Axjion
Summary: Those were the days of the Ravenclaw Witch Hunts and Arith was just a girl in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not that she was entirely blameless, but she had nothing to do with the abductions terrorizing the royal family. How can she clear her name? How can she defend herself from the current dangers with only the aid of a stick? For Arith, it's all a game of numbers.


**Chapter 1 - Wendelin the Weird**

She hid between a particularly pungent pig trough and the cracked wall of the bakery. The aroma of the freshly baked breads and butter-glazed rolls and other haute cuisine commoners like she could never afford unraveled through the air, fighting the odors of the damp grass beneath her and rotting apples filling the trough, all in pursuit of control over her nose. Her senses were confused, not knowing which odor to take in, not knowing whether to inhale or exhale. Her arms ached from a long day's work. The palms of her hands were dry and callous-ridden. And she was certain her dress had torn on the backside after having snagged a nail. But those were the least of her worries.

Cautiously, she slid her hands along the rough wooden surface of the trough, letting her fingers dangle over the edge before lifting herself up just enough to peer unnoticed over the scene.

In the centre of the village of Ravenclaw, a plethora of angry men hollered and spat vile curses from their mouths, their lips drooling with saliva and beer. Displeased women cried out and pointed accusatory fingers. Even children with barrows filled with rotting cabbages and moldy potatoes afforded twisted grins as they shouted for vengeance and called for blood to be spilled.

Arith plopped back into the grass. She knew well what was transpiring. Another witch hunt. And they'd been causing quite a stir in town, starting slow, with few followers, they've become a nightly routine with nearly everyone in town taking part. So many accused thus far. So many sentenced to a wrongful death. Two-hundred thirty-seven people remained in town. One-hundred eleven male, one hundred twenty-five female. And one Arith.

Of this she was certain. She was good with numbers.

She didn't understand how things turned out this way, how she became cursed with magic. Which atrocious crime, what unbearable sin, had she committed that validated this? Yet here she was, cowering behind the bakery's trough every night, too ashamed to show her face at the nightly gatherings for fear of being found out, too afraid to take the fall because already thirteen had fallen for her.

Not that she'd done anything anyhow. It wasn't Arith who'd strutted arrogantly into the village, casting spells left and right at whosoever gave her a second glance. It wasn't Arith who'd made quite the spectacle of herself by decimating half the swordsmen and bowmen who'd run to the people's aid with a single incantation. It wasn't Arith who'd, as a finale to the show, abducted Queen Rowena at wandpoint.

Twenty-three men bedridden with bruises and a nasty magical illness that were even beyond the knowledge of the well-studied town medic. One queen abducted before her loyal subjects. And thirteen people dead from the fear that slowly accrued afterward.

A flickering blaze sends streams of light through the air, making Arith place her eyes on town once more. The fires of the torches are so bright and unyielding, they cast away the moon prematurely and bring about daylight

The few swordsmen and bowmen who'd avoided injury a fortnight ago march solemnly toward the town centre carrying the heavy, silk-woven blue flags clad with the Ravenclaw insignia, equipped with swords that brandished in the torchlight and quivers of arrows that jingled and jangled as they strode. Most appeared to be distressed, refusing to hold their heads up high, still mourning the loss of their queen. But behind them, six or seven men deep in the pack, a young man and women upon two white stallions maintained composure. Strong, poise, elegant and steadfast, they ride in in ornate blue and black cloaks, bejeweled with blue and black diamonds. The Queen's children.

The commoners parted hastefully, hushing each other, bowing and humbling themselves before the Prince and Princess. But they pay little mind to them and direct their attention toward the defendent.

"State thine name and occupation," the less received of the two, the Prince - Merwyn the Malicious they call him - ordered.

"Wendelin, the seamstress," the defendent says.

"Ye, Wendelin, are accused of being a witch, of attacking soldiers and sentries and of kidnapping the Queen thereby absconding with the royal diadem," Princess Helena, the younger of the two opened the argument. A few gasps and murmurs follow her words before the Prince continues.

"How doth ye plead?" he asked in a demanding tone.

Wendelin lifted her head, allowing her stringy brown hair to fall away from her face. She had a youthful, playful air about her. Arith remembered Wendelin as one of the older girls when she was a child. Only six years older than she was in fact. It didn't compute to Arith that someone so young, so weak, so innocent could have committed such a crime.

"How doth ye plead?" Merwyn demanded anew.

Wendelin eyed her Prince with brown eyes unimpressed. The corners of her lips trembled and quaked until she let out a humorous smirk. "Why, me Merwyn? I plead _guilty_."

Arith stood at this. She couldn't believe what she'd heard. Others shared that sentiment; falling hard on the ground, crying aloud, covering the ears of their children to shelter them from such malevolent blasphemy. Princess Helena too was caught offguard; tightening the reins in her hands, she startled her stallion and was nearly bucked off.

"Silence!" the Prince waved his sword above the crowd and they obeyed without hesitation. "Then, ye shall be hereby sente-"

"Alas, Brother!" Helena interrupts, tugging her brother brother's hand down. "I dare not believe in her words alone. Who hath put ye up to this, seamstress?"

Wendelin's smirk stretched into a broad smile, eyes watering. "None, Her Majesty."

"None?"

Wendelin threw her head back, her eyes spilling dry tears across the ground and began to cackle. "None. I was too sly for the Queen. I was come to her chambers alone. I cast a spell upon her. I dragged her corpse into the wood where I alone killed her."

The crowd roared in anger and upset and Helena managed to turn from pale white to bright yellow to burning scarlet.

"And most notorious of all," Wendelin went on, "I managed all my deeds with this very knife." She drew a short rust-covered dagger from her frock, and waved it above her head, letting the torchlight catch the bits of silver that remained on the blade and reflect from the shiny bronze hilt.

Arith was certain she had intention to throw it and claim another victim, but several bowmen were swift, sending out five arrows in her direction. Wendelin reacted quickly, blocking two with the rusty dagger and letting one slip past her head. The final two lodged themselves in her left arm and abdomen where they remained as swordsmen rushed to her side in attempt to slay her.

"Enough!" Merwyn persuaded his men to cease by lifting his sword once more. "She is to be sentenced to death as any criminal of this kind."

A few boos rang through the air but the loudest words were suggestions. The guillotine. The noose.

Merwyn's eyes strayed for a moment to his sister, red, eyes full of hatred. "Nay," Merwyn commanded attention. "All the populace shall witness the suffering of those who commit such atrocities. Tie her thusly and burn her."


End file.
